


Devil on the Doorstep

by anr



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-13
Updated: 2008-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few days, maybe less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil on the Doorstep

**Author's Note:**

> Post- _The Last Stand_.

You're in the gardens, down by the lake, and the setting sun is warm on your exposed flesh. The air is heavy with the call of distant birds, insects, traffic, a whisper of wind smoothing it all into white noise. You feel still, calm, at peace.

When you shade your eyes to look out over the water, the skin on your hand turns translucent.

In that moment, you _know_.

  


* * *

  


You walk back to the mansion slowly, wonderingly. In your head, Erik is smiling, but it's a faint memory, easily dismissed.

When you push open the door and step through, Logan is walking down the stairs towards you. "Hey, kid."

"Hey." Your drawl is slow and sun-warmed still, a smile just beginning. "What's up?"

He chucks a thumb over his shoulder. "Need a lift."

 _Mission_ , you translate, and for just a moment, old disappointments flare. You dismiss them too. "No problem," you say.

When you fall into step beside him, the backs of his fingers brush yours once.

  


* * *

  


Downstairs, you pull on your uniform, tie back your hair, stretch.

For the first time in weeks, you wonder if your hands look naked.

  


* * *

  


Six hours later, you pick up the pieces in South Dakota, the simple recon mission anything but.

You set the Blackbird down on top of the not-so-abandoned helipad but leave the engine running. Outside, Bobby is helping Jubilee, his hand tight around her arm and both of them stumbling. When you exit to help him, you can see Storm and Logan bringing up the rear.

You get Bobby and Jubilee into the jet and into their seats, strapping them in, but they won't look at you, won't look at anything. You tell yourself it's just shock, just temporary, and you know that that's the truth, but it doesn't stop you from worrying.

Storm whips past you and slides into the pilots seat, unwilling to wait for you, fingers already slipping over the controls as she yells out, "everyone, hold on!"

The Blackbird lurches suddenly into the air, and you stumble back two steps, three, blindly reaching behind you for the edge of a seat, thinking: _oh god, oh god, not again, not_.

Then a hand curls around your waist, tugging you back and down, and you end up in Logan's lap, his arms banding across your waist tighter than any seatbelt could. Your hands find his armrests and grip tightly as Storm sends the vehicle into a sharp, vertical rise, your breath coming short and fast and painful until you've levelled out, some odd minutes later, far beyond the immediate reach of the military.

The flight back to Xavier's takes an eternity.

  


* * *

  


You watch everyone leave the jet, watch Storm and Bobby and Jubilee walk past without ever looking your way. Logan's arms are around your waist still, holding you close.

"How long?"

You shrug carelessly. "A few days, maybe less." You wonder how he knows, how he can tell; if he can he sense it, this rising awareness, the same way you can.

 _Time_ , you think, _is a fickle thing_.

His chin brushes your shoulder. "What will you do?"

You stare at your hands, knuckles white and bare as you dig your fingers into his armrests; you haven't worn gloves in what feels like forever and there's still so much you need to do. "Run."

Neither of you move.

  


* * *

  


He follows you up through the mansion, shadowing you to your room. When you smile goodnight, he frowns.

"You could always --"

Shaking your head, you tap a finger against his lips, relishing the brief contact in a way you haven't since the drug first took. "It's fine," you say, "really."

His expression (understanding, sympathy, _need_ ) makes you wish you were lying.

  


* * *

  


You download a map of the continent, make a list, pack a bag. (You stop when you realise you're procrastinating.)

When you leave your room, your hands are empty.

  


* * *

  


He catches you by the wrist at the last moment, the rest of the mansion asleep and ignorant, and you only two steps from the door, a set of car keys from the road. (You'll take the Lexus, you think; the silver one.)

"What are you afraid of?"

You tug lightly, freeing your hand, and know that once upon a time, he wouldn't have let go.

Once, you wouldn't have given him the chance to.

"That I'm the only one who's not."

He doesn't offer to come with, and neither do you. The door closes quietly behind you.

  


* * *

  


He calls you five minutes to the State border, leaving a message on your voicemail when you choose not to answer.

"I'm sorry." A quiet pause. "Marie --"

He doesn't finish, and a truck overtakes you while you listen to the sound of his breathing.

  


* * *

  


You're in the South proper when the world remembers what you already know, that you're in an era of quick fixes and even quicker failures, and you're not surprised -- you wouldn't be here if you were -- but it amazes you that they are.

You drive for awhile, weaving up and down streets you still remember much too clearly. After awhile, you park the car and walk.

When Mrs Parkinson recognises you on the street near your old high-school, you mute your accent into something vaguely Northern and convince her she's mistaken. She buys it too easily and you're strangely disappointed. As you watch her walk away, it takes all your strength not to call her back and ask after David.

You return to the car.

  


* * *

  


You get a motel room for the night and flick through the TV channels at random, eventually settling on an infomercial for stainless steel kitchen knives. It's a sick kind of amusement that keeps you watching as they slice shoes, tomatoes, and chicken bones in half.

The Logan inside you is deafeningly silent.

  


* * *

  


You sleep late, eat even later, drift again.

There's a small boy playing on the front lawn, brown hair flopping across his eyes and Disney bandaids on his knees. On the porch behind him, your mother paces slowly, a cell phone pressed to her ear and her attention divided as she waves the newspaper like a fan.

You hesitate on the sidewalk across the road and watch, stare, wonder, _count_. Your palms are sweating in the humidity and you fist your hands absently, feeling your nails slip across your skin.

The little boy -- four years old? five? certainly no older; you'd _remember_ if he was older -- looks up and sees you, waves. "Hi!"

You walk away before your mother can turn around.

  


* * *

  


You call him from a gas station in Tennessee, your past four-hundred miles behind you and fading fast.

"Yeah?"

"I was wrong." You lean against the side of your car and stare into the neon lights across the parking lot. "I'm not --"

He cuts you off. "Drive faster."

  


* * *

  


You walk in the front door eleven hours later and there is Storm, standing by the stairs, flicking through the morning newspaper. When she glances at your bare hands before your face, you know you don't need to see the headlines.

"You're back," she says, smiling pleasantly, "good trip?"

It wasn't a vacation -- memory lane never is -- but she never knew your destination, so you can't hold the journey against her. When she starts moving towards you, you hold up your hands and force a smile of your own. "Careful," you say, "they're lethal." 

She stops, and glances down again, momentarily surprised. Slowly, her smile brightens.

(You kind of hate her for that.)

  


* * *

  


You find him still asleep in his room, one arm outstretched as if in unconscious invitation. When you stand beside the bed, he stirs somewhat, his hand moving to touch your thigh, to brush up towards your hip.

You shed your jacket and shoes and let him pull you blindly down into the mess of sheets, your body half on his and his fingers slipping under the edge of your shirt and anchoring you close.

His breath is warm against your forehead; it's tempting to wake him up proper, to make the most of what little touch you can still have.

You fall asleep.

  


* * *

  


In the afternoon, he watches you pull on your gloves.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/310816.html>


End file.
